Affinity
by artistic mishap
Summary: After Garrus tells Shepard of his thwarted artistic inclinations, she shares a secret talent.


A/N: Companion piece to a much larger, much darker story I'm working on. Didn't plan it, but once the idea had planted itself in my brain, it wouldn't let go. Enjoy.

**Affinity**

She enters the forward battery, looking sore and tired but pretty good, overall. They managed to save some kids from Cerberus clutches – and Jack too – and in Garrus' books, that's a day well-spent. He hopes wherever the Illusive Man is, he's choking on his outrageously priced scotch.

Shepard takes a minute after entering to let her gaze roam over him, and he can't help but feel inordinately pleased with himself.

"See something you like?" he queries, his blue eyes skimming in her direction.

Her mouth quirks. "Well, now that you mention it." She walks over to him, wrapping an arm around his narrow waist and laying a kiss on his mandible. With a small squeeze, she releases him and leans against the console.

"You're happy," he says.

"Yep. Saved some kids. Thwarted Cerberus. Mission a total success."

Garrus hums good naturedly. "It's nice to have some of those. Spirits know we've been getting our asses kicked." He goes quiet for a moment, before speaking up again, his voice thoughtful. "You know, I wish they'd had a school like the Academy on Palaven." He taps his fingers along the edge of the console. "I always wanted to learn how to paint."

She tries to stop the snort of surprise, really she does. When that fails, she tries to look as innocent as possible, even though Garrus stares her down with slitted eyes. "A painter? Really? You?"

His voice is deadly serious, and if they weren't so close, Shepard might have been worried when he said, "Problem, Commander?"

Still, she holds up her hands in surrender. "No need to get testy. I'm just surprised is all." She scratches her nose, attempting to hide her smile. "I guess that means in another life, we'd have never met."

"You're right," Garrus agrees with an incline of the head. He's pretty much given up his calibrations, crossing his arms and leaning one hip against the console. His attitude is lofty now. "I'd be a rich artist, holed up in my billion credit, state-of-the-art bunker while you fought the Reapers – with less efficiency, I might add, since you'd have nobody capable of shooting a rife even semi-decently."

Shepard pokes him in the arm where she knows the plates don't quite meet so that he'll definitely feel it. "Hey, you better watch it," she warns, though she can't quite keep the smile out of her voice. She sniffs. "And for your information, in another life, I wouldn't have been a soldier either. You don't get to hog all the artistic sensibility in this relationship, mister."

There's a long moment while he considers her, his mandibles flaring in good humour. Finally, he says, "Well, I know you weren't going to be a dancer -" and here Shepard whirls on him, outraged, but he continues on like it's nothing, "-but, well, you've got me. What secret dream did you have?"

"You know what?" says Shepard, crossing her arms too. "I don't think I'm going to tell you." She stands suddenly and starts to move out of the room.

"Oh, come on – you know I'm dying to hear all your secret talents," he says. He does his best turian impression of an eyebrow waggle. "And I do mean all of them."

When she doesn't stop, Garrus reaches out to grab her but she skirts out of his grasp, grinning.

"I'm mad at you," she announces as the doors slide open behind her. "That means you don't get to know anything."

"And how would I go about fixing this problem?" he asks, playing along.

"Time and _lots_ of effort," she says, her eyes alighting on him in a way that immediately sends all the blood in his body rushing to one place. As if she knows the effect she's having, she spins and walks away as though nothing happened.

Well, it's a good thing that Garrus hasn't ever been afraid of a little hard work.

**ooo**

It's been weeks since Shepard's teasing in the forward battery. In that time, they stopped a turian bomb from annihilating the krogan, cured the genophage, and summoned the mother of all thresher maws to take down a Reaper. And when Garrus says _they_ what he really means is _Shepard_. He's been watching her closely since Mordin's death, and though he's no human expert, he's pretty sure that those lines around her eyes don't mean anything good. That coupled with the fact that she's spending more and more time alone, well, he's no fool.

So when he's calibrating and she comes in brandishing some oddly shaped case in her hands, her face split in the largest smile he's seen in a while, he's puzzled but pleasantly surprised.

She sets it down on the table with a flourish, placing one hand on her hip. "Ha!" she says, looking at him like he's supposed to know what the hell's going on.

"You... bought something?" he ventures.

Shepard's face falls, moulding into an expression of consternation. "No," she says, "actually, it was a gift – but never mind that. You wanted to know what I'd be doing in another life, didn't you?"

In fact, Garrus had all but forgotten their conversation and he thought she had too. He'd come to enjoy his apologies too much to be too worried about it. Now, though, whatever sliver of insecurity (jealousy?) brought on by the word _gift_ turns instead to curiosity. "What is it?" he asks.

She pops the clasps and pulls out... something. It's made of wood, and it's curvy, and it's got strings on it. She holds it out to show him. When he says nothing, she gestures with it. "It's an instrument."

"An... instrument?" he says doubtfully, reaching out one hand to run his finger over the grain of the wood.

"Yeah!" says Shepard, and he can't remember the last time she got so excited over something that wasn't a weapon. She reaches into the case and pulls out a stick, holding that out too.

"And the stick is for?"

"The _bow –_ and you run it over the strings and it makes a sound," she says brightly, pantomiming the gesture.

Garrus shifts his gaze back and forth between the so-called instrument and Shepard. All he can say is, "Trust you to find the one instrument that looks like it could be used to bludgeon someone to death."

"Yeah, well, I got the stick from up your ass," she retorts, pulling a sour expression in his direction, and despite himself, he can't help but laugh. She sets the curvy instrument under her chin, puffing the hair out of her face. When she raises her stick, here's a quiet grace to her that he's only ever seen on the battlefield, so he shuts up.

The sound Shepard produces isn't like one he's heard before. Garrus has a hard time quantifying it, but it doesn't really matter, because he's too busy watching her fingers fly across the strings. She's closed her eyes, and she's wearing that intense expression he loves so much. He knows nothing about this instrument, nothing about the music she's producing, but he decides that she's good – damn good, in fact.

When she finishes, she's smiling softly at him. She takes a little bow, and places her thing back in its case.

"What's it called?" Garrus asks.

"A violin," she says, snapping the case shut. She stands up, running one hand over her hair. "Took it up when I was young – back when I decided the last thing I wanted to be was a soldier." Her mouth quirks, and this time when he grabs for her, she lets herself get pulled into his embrace. "So, what did you think?"

He presses his face into her hair. "Much better than your dancing."

"You're an ass," she mutters.

"Definitely," he agrees. "But for what it's worth, this ass is very grateful you became a soldier." He moves back slightly, tracing the curve of her jaw, and for a moment he wonders what it would be like to paint her, if he could ever get her right.

Shepard takes his hand in hers and kisses his palm, eyes peeking up at him through her lashes in a telling way. She backs away, leading him out of the battery.

Garrus decides the real Shepard is much, much better.


End file.
